Dingeye had been forging ahead, slashing and chopping at fern and nettle with his newly acquired weapon. As midday drew near, Thura was lagging noticeably. His companion wiped the blade of the wondrous sword on his sleeve as he waited impatiently for him, calling back through the serried columns of treetrunks, “Move yerself, mucker. Cummon, stir yer stumps, stoatnose!”

Thura wiped his brow. Leaning against an oak, he breathed heavily. “I’ve got t’ rest, Ding. Don’t know wot’s wrong wi’ me. I feels all done in. Must’ve been that bath they made me take.”

Dingeye sneered and took a swipe at a passing butterfly with the sword, admiring the flashing green lights as its blade glinted in the sunlight filtering through the emerald canopy. “Garn! I got bathed, too, an’ it didn’t ’urt me. Now get yer paws a-movin’, or I’ll leave yer be’ind. ’Urry up!”

Thura’s face was an unhealthy grayish pallor, his limbs trembled and sweat beaded on his nosetip as he stumbled to keep up, calling out to his comrade, “Slow down, mucker. You wouldn’t leave me ’ere ter be catchered by that lot from Redhall. ’Ere, carry the vittles an’ I’ll be able to get along a mite better.”

“Carry vittles?” Dingeye pulled a lip and slashed moodily at a young rowan tree. “Huh, not likely. You took ’em, you carry ’em. I’ve got me paws full luggin’ this ’ere sword around. Tell yer wot, though, we’ll stop awhile an’ ’ave lunch. That’ll make less food ter carry.”

Gratefully Thura let the sack of provisions drop as he collapsed in a heap at the edge of a small clearing. Dingeye immediately set about stuffing himself with honey, bread and nuts from the sack, ignoring Thura’s pitiful state.

“Lissen, we can’t stop ’ere too long, they’ll be on our trail by now. Still, we’ve escaped before an’ we c’n do it again. We’ll stick to this forest—it’s better’n flatlands, more cover.”

Thura curled into a ball, shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering and his tail quivering fitfully. Dingeye stopped eating and prodded him.

“Hah, yer wobblin’ about like a baldy beetle there. Just look at yer, mucker. Wot’s the matter?”

Thura’s head went up and down as he stammered a reply. “S-s-sick! I-I-I’m s-s-sick, feel b-b-b-bad!”

Instinctively Dingeye drew away from him. “Is it a fever? ’Ave yer got a fever? Huh, you look awful!”

“H-h-h-elp me!” Thura stretched out a trembling paw.

Dingeye shouldered the sack. “Oh, come on then, I’ll carry the vittles. But I’m not carryin’ you, stoat. I don’t wanna catch no fever.” He took a few paces and looked back angrily at Thura curled up on the woodland floor. “Well, are yer comin’ or aren’t yer, ’cos I’m not ’angin’ round ’ere waitin’ for yer!”